December 2003
Friggin' December. Even the best stations completely lost it, and started spouting Hallmark shit about snow and baby reindeer. Dean silenced the radio with a grumble and dove into his tape collection.
The engine hummed quietly through the sudden silence, and the light from the passing lamp posts ghosted over the empty passenger seat, bathing the leather in a yellowish glow.
In the absence of distraction, his gaze strayed over, lingering on the cold and silent spot.
Then his fingers closed around a Zeppelin tape and, as the music boomed, Dean nailed his eyes firmly back on the road.